And then the wolf jumps out and tries to catch a sheep.”
That second meeting of Phil and Helia had passed off very prettily. Helia was a regular little tomboy at play. Of course she did not often get a chance to play, and she found it pleasant to leap and laugh with other children; and Phil was there, standing around with the boys. He would have given everything in the world to be wolf and seize Helia and devour her with kisses—if he had dared.
And perhaps he might have dared,—lured on by a smile from the little Saint John,—but some one (it was Cemetery, the clown) came out from the circus-tent, and at sight of him sheep and shepherd scattered. He called harshly to Helia, and with a gesture sent her into the tent.
The little girl obeyed without a word, raising her elbow as she passed before her master, as if to ward off a blow. The last thing seen by Phil was the appealing glance of Helia, which seemed to say to him, “You see—and yet I was doing no harm—and we’d have had such fun!”
That was their second meeting.
The next day Phil prowled around the circus-tent with the other boys and tried to catch a glimpse of Helia through the holes of the canvas, or from beneath, stretched out flat on the ground.
All the day long the little girl was kept rehearsing her exercises. Sometimes it was the trapeze, or again the carpet. Cemetery gave her his directions with a serious air.
“Allez!—firm on your feet—smile, smile—throw your head back—don’t move your feet! Bend back! bend! bend! Fall on your hands! There—there—smile! Tonnerre! Won’t you smile?”
But Phil waited in vain; he never saw her play again with the others.
Soon afterward the circus went away, and Phil, when vacation-time came, returned to America. He took with him tender remembrances, seeing often the last touching glance of Helia with her beautiful sad eyes. Pity mingled with his tenderness.